Part I

(Conversing With the Devil)


"What's wrong with you?" She asked...

"A lot of things, or so I'm told'¦" I replied...

"That's you, always being sarcastic; everything's a fuckin' joke isn't it?" She said'¦

'¦With a sort of end note that clarified the entire thing. I was a joke. And if not, what I said was. So I didn't say anything, so I didn't leave myself open for another cheap shot. I have a lot to say but nobodies listening, everybody's busy glistening, shining and shimmering in their lights glowing brightly slowly fading into the twilight that's becoming night and now the shadows get long. The truth gets perverse as opposed to just plain hurts'¦

She asked me a few minutes earlier, with a tear in her eye she said to me...

"What would I do without you?" She asked...

"I'm sure you would find something to do" I said...

"What? What do mean by that? She demanded...

...It always ended with a question, and me staring into empty glass eyes that saw nothing but their own reflection. Neglection, ways of paradoxical affection. Exceptions, here and there, now everywhere all at once along with acceptance. So was I sticking around for mellow dramatic silence and excitement or was waiting to leave, to be excused, but there was no excuse even though many times I tried...

"Are you just gonna sit there and look at me?" She asked, as her voice rose...

"Ya, I'm thinkin' bout it...? I replied with a slight nod...

...As the Q's and A's got shorter and shorter and relied more on body language with quick glances to the street and the coffee mugs, things sped up, the tempo went to a quick one two. Seating slouched and eyes vouched for the real truth that was looming around side by side with the cigarette smoke, teamed with knots in my throat, twitching itching failings at reaching out and cutting the hunger short of its fill, that hunger, insatiable, reliable...


Part II

(Disaffection)


'¦ So we sat in silent conversation, hopeless thoughts of preservation, disaffect the affirmation of the after thought, it's amazing. A refined art of madness, psychosis, neurosis, same words for the same mistake, as your fingers rake into skin with a burning motive without restraint. Untamed visual, see the cycle of reuse, salvaging the abuse, what's your excuse?

Disaffect the affirmation of the after thought, it's amazing'¦

"How's life treating you?" they ask all too frequently'¦

"With interest." I reply'¦

Fuck your question until it screams its own answer, blast through the rivalry, triviality of the unblessed fallacy, fragile personality in the wake of imperfection and its reality, justified fake of the becoming, now were happy'¦

"Fu'¦ fu'¦ fuck you!" she says to me'¦

"No, fuck you" I reply'¦

Don't make me stand up, I'm calm and well mannered, neatly natured, nurtured with the slowest of response times, but I swear to an unjust god that I will cause pain without remedy; you'll cry guilty tears of filthy fears, no disease to match your cures'¦

"It's all over now, there's no need to cry" I said'¦

"Why isn't there a reason to cry?" she asked'¦

Because no one will be around to hear you'¦

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